


The Wingman

by Boton



Series: Guy Talk [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Male Friendship, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:17:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3909247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has been having a bit of a "dry spell," and he thinks he might need a wingman to help him find his next date.  </p><p>Sherlock thinks he'd be perfect for the job.</p><p>What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wingman

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock is the creation of the BBC and its partners, and of co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This work is for my pleasure and that of my readers; I am not profiting from the intellectual property of those creators listed above.

Sherlock and John entered the pub pushed by a gust of cold January wind, their faces buried in scarves and upturned coat collars, and gloved hands thrust into pockets. “This had to be the night you found an interesting case that required legwork, didn’t it?” John groused. “Couldn’t find yourself a nice ‘four’ that you could solve in the flat, could you?”

“Honestly, John, stop whinging; it’s not that cold,” Sherlock said, sniffing slightly through a red nose as his sinuses protested the difference between outside and inside temperatures. “Besides, the only way we’ll know if the missing waitress was murdered by the bartender is by observing him.”

John merely cocked his eyebrows as he headed for the bar, but Sherlock grabbed his elbow through his coat and pulled him back into a booth. “Not at the bar; we need to control our observation and not draw undue attention,” he said in a low voice, shoving his gloves in his pocket and loosening his coat but declining to take off the heavy Belstaff. 

John slid into the booth, sighing as if spending an evening in a pub were the worst thing Sherlock had ever asked of him. “Fine, but I hope you’re not expecting me to go without a pint while we do this ‘stakeout,’” he muttered, making a suggestion of air quotes around the last word.

“Of course not; I’m not drinking tonight, but I’ll go get us some beverages. It will give me a chance to observe the bartender while he works,” Sherlock said, sliding back out of the booth and moving toward the bar.

John had been in a bit of a mood since the beginning of the year, Sherlock mused as he walked to the bar. His breakup with his most recent girlfriend came, as such things tended to do, right over New Years, leaving John without female company. He took it in stride at first, but, as the weeks went on, he started to complain darkly about a “dry spell” and how he could fix it. “I’ll bet Lestrade is a decent wingman,” he’d mused one evening when Sherlock was only half listening. “Maybe I should see if he’ll join me for a pint and help a bloke out.”

The words came back to Sherlock as he stood waiting for John’s pint and his own mineral water. He noticed a woman smiling up at him – mid-30s, blonde hair, professional career in the city, second child but oldest girl in the family – and he began to get an idea. What was it a wingman was supposed to do, then?

The bartender returned with the beverages, and Sherlock paid while the woman nodded at his water. “Not drinking tonight? Your turn for designated driver?” she asked with a smile.

Sherlock looked down at the beverages and hurriedly pulled the pint closer to him and took a drink. “Yes, er, no. That is, my friend is the one who isn’t drinking. He’s a doctor, you know, and he’s on call,” Sherlock improvised, turning from the bar and gesturing with the glass to John. John raised his hand slightly, perplexed at the attention he was suddenly attracting from Sherlock and the woman. 

“Oh, he is?” she said. “How exciting.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Before this, he was a trauma surgeon. Served in Afghanistan.” The woman looked up at Sherlock, intrigued.

“Really? He sounds very interesting; I’d love to meet him.”

Sherlock nodded smugly and led the way back to the booth. This was all going very well. John would be so glad that he had Sherlock as a wingman.

***

Sherlock returned to the booth trailing his new acquaintance and deliberately set the mineral water in front of John while sliding into the seat. 

“John, this is…;” he knew he’d forgotten something. “A woman,” he continued. “Who I met while getting our beverages.” Here he nodded at the water, which John was trying to trade for the pint he really wanted. “I explained that, as a doctor, you had to remain constantly vigilant, especially while on call.”

John looked perplexed, eyes darting from Sherlock to the woman now standing at the edge of their table, uncertain where to sit. “But Sherlock, I’m not…” he started.

“Accustomed to letting people know that you may be called away at any moment,” Sherlock finished rapidly. “She was very impressed, and wanted to meet you,” he finished in a rush, leaning back in the booth proudly.

John finally swiveled to take in the attractive woman now nervously touching her neck and hair in ever-greater uncertainty. “Oh,” he said. “I see. At least, I think I see. John Watson,” he said, offering his hand to the woman.

“Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock emphasized, as John shot him a look. 

“Yeah, I think you covered that,” John said, returning to the woman. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” He turned on the warm smile that John saved for attractive women.

“Emma. Emma Williams,” she said, shaking hands and then sliding into the seat beside John at his invitation. “Yes, your friend here was just telling me about your medical career. And time in Afghanistan too,” she said, turning a bit so her body mirrored John’s. “You’ve certainly had a busy time of it.”

“Yeah, a bit,” John demurred. “But apparently Sherlock has already filled you in, and I’m at a disadvantage here. What do you do?”

“Accountant,” Sherlock piped up. “Professional training required, so likely to be intelligent, which you insist on in your female partners. Yet, probably not making what an experienced physician does, so she’s likely to be attracted to your earning power. She also finds your background to be a welcome alternative to the predictability of men in her own field, indicating an attraction to excitement that would mirror your own love of danger.”

John and Emma both looked at Sherlock, stunned. 

“Yeah, I’m an accountant,” she continued nervously. “He’s right, not the most exciting job, but I do love living in London.” She returned her attention to John.

“Me too,” John said. “In fact, that’s how I met this bloke,” he said, gesturing at Sherlock. “I was looking for a flatmate after returning from service so I could stay in the city. Can’t really imagine being anyplace else.”

“Me either,” Emma laughed, leaning into John slightly.

“In fact,” Sherlock began as John and Emma swiveled toward him, John with an increasingly murderous look in his eye directed entirely at Sherlock. “Emma was living with a boyfriend – maybe a fiancé, but boyfriend is more likely – for two, maybe three years. They broke up six months ago but she remained in London rather than returning home. She’s had a short relationship since then of which nothing came, so you wouldn’t be her ‘rebound relationship.’” Sherlock elaborated. The sight of Sherlock Holmes making air quotes would have been amusing had John not been so intent on shutting him up.

“Well, this is getting a bit creepy, frankly,” Emma muttered, starting to pick up her handbag and scoot to the outer edge of the bench. John put a hand on her wrist and stopped her.

“No, please stay. Sherlock was just going back to the bar. Sherlock, don’t you have some investigation you need to do? You haven’t gathered data from that side of the room yet, and I really think that’s what you need. Now.”

Sherlock looked momentarily perplexed, then his expression cleared. “Of course, John, say no more. I do, in fact, have a few questions for the bartender. Do let me know if you require more of my assistance,” he said. 

If John didn’t know better, he would have sworn that Sherlock walked off with a swagger of triumph.

***  
Two hours later, Sherlock returned to the booth, his data gathered and his ability to entertain himself with bar nuts and cocktail serviettes officially at an end. John and Emma were sitting much closer than when he had left them, and they clearly were making plans for the future.

“This has been a delightful evening,” Emma said, adding “strange, but delightful. I hope you don’t think me forward, but I’d love to give you my number, maybe get together again? That is, if your friend here hasn’t already figured out my number.”

“Well, actually,” Sherlock began, just as John raised a finger in warning. 

“Don’t,” he said to Sherlock, turning to Emma and handing her his phone already open to a new contact page. “I’d love to give you a call.” Emma took the phone and started typing her entry.

The three shrugged into their coats, and Emma cast a final smile in John’s direction as she exited the pub. Sherlock impatiently pulled John’s sleeve to drag him outside, clearly done with his investigation for the evening.

John clicked “save” on his mobile, making sure the Emma’s phone number was saved before shoving the device in his pocket and following Sherlock out into the blustery night.

“OK,” he said once they were trudging their way back to Baker Street. “What, exactly, were you trying to do back there?”

“You said you needed a wingman. I was trying to assist,” Sherlock explained.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Deduction, but you almost got me dumped before I even got her number,” John said ruefully. “You may have to accept that, when it comes to picking up women, I might have a bit more experience than you.”

“You’ve been grumpy and dull to be around ever since your last girlfriend – Marie? Marian?” Sherlock searched half-heartedly for the name. 

“Michelle,” John supplied.

“Yes, since Michelle stopped seeing you.”

“Because she found a human head in the refrigerator when she went to get some water,” John again filled in.

Sherlock made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Details. In any event, you said you were thinking of asking Lestrade for help. I know you much better than he does, so my assistance should be much more valuable than his. And,” Sherlock said, sounding slightly vulnerable, “I believe that this is one of the services that friends provide for one another.”

John looked sideways at Sherlock for a long moment, then clapped his friend on the back.

“Your heart was definitely in the right place, mate. And it all worked out in the end.”

“See, I could have told you that, John,” Sherlock said proudly. “You can trust my judgment.”

“In most things, I suppose so,” John said. “And because I appreciate the gesture, I’m not going to say anything about the head in the fridge,” he added magnanimously.

“Both of them?” Sherlock asked.

“Both?” John asked, and then gave a long-suffering sigh.


End file.
